


The World Ahead

by Elvendork



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-13 01:58:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3363509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elvendork/pseuds/Elvendork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In hindsight, Bilbo supposes he should have been prepared for the nightmares. The fact is that he does not know how to live through such terrors, except by simply <i>living through</i> them. You go on because you have to, because there is no way back and no way out and nothing to do but wait for the shadow to pass.</p>
<p>
  <b>Frodo suffers from nightmares in the first few weeks of living at Bag End, and Bilbo is selfishly grateful to have someone around who understands.</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The World Ahead

**Author's Note:**

> Well, okay then. 
> 
> I was feeling ill today. I sat down to write. This is what happened. 
> 
> After 14+ years in the fandom, this is my first ever (completed and posted) Middle Earth fanfiction. I do hope it isn't too awful.

In hindsight, Bilbo supposes he should have been prepared for the nightmares. He should not have been so unreasonably startled by the first cry of fear from his nephew, or so utterly lost about what to do to help.

The fact is that he does not know how to live through such terrors, except by simply _living through_ them. You go on because you have to, because there is no way back and no way out and nothing to do but wait for the shadow to pass. You do your very best to hasten its departure in any way you can, even if that means crying until you can’t hear the memory over your own tears, but there is no way Bilbo knows to truly heal that pain; only to survive it.

In the end, this is what he tells Frodo, deeming the truth to be better, in the long run, than a comforting lie. Or at least, a version of the truth.

He holds Frodo’s hand – still so small, so young to be orphaned like this – and he bows his head, and he says ‘I know’.

Frodo stops crying then. He sniffs, wipes his damp cheeks with his free hand, and looks up at his uncle with his lip still trembling. He does not quite manage to formulate a question before Bilbo continues to speak.

‘I know, my boy,’ Bilbo soothes, not meeting Frodo’s eyes. He blinks hard and takes a deep breath; Frodo’s terrified face is far too familiar and Bilbo does not know if he can do this, he is out of his depth, he does not –

‘You get them too?’ whispers Frodo, astonished and disbelieving and _relieved_ , relieved beyond all measure that Uncle Bilbo _understands_.

‘Yes,’ says Bilbo quietly, ‘though not as often now as I did once. They fade, after a while – or you learn to live with them. A little of both, I suppose. You’ll live through it, Frodo. We’ll make it through together.’

Frodo feels a great swelling of fondness in his heart at Bilbo’s words, the first he has truly believed since he heard the news of his parents’ deaths. Bilbo is the only one yet who has not simply shushed him and told him _it’s okay_ when it is so plainly _not_.

‘I thought I was with them,’ Frodo confesses, watching the top of Bilbo’s head as the older hobbit watches their linked hands. ‘I thought I was drowning too, and I couldn’t save them, and –’

‘And when you woke up you thought for a moment you were still there, and after that you thought it couldn’t possibly have been real – not any of it – and when you realised that it was you wanted to scream, because you didn’t know what else to do. There was something inside you trying to break free, and it was going to tear you apart if you didn’t let it out, but you didn’t know how, and that terrified you.’

There is a pause while Frodo nods, dumbfounded and curious and frightened to ask any more.

‘I know,’ says Bilbo again, so quietly that Frodo can hardly tell he has spoken. They sit together in silence for a long moment, simply breathing and digesting the idea that there is someone, anyone in the world who truly does understand. It is a new feeling for both of them, but much longer in coming for Bilbo, who can hardly believe either his luck or his selfishness in perceiving Frodo’s awful loss in such a way.

‘How?’ Frodo breathes at length, frowning and shifting so that he is sitting cross-legged on the bed, facing Bilbo. ‘How do you know all that?’

‘I… went on an Adventure, once,’ says Bilbo slowly. Frodo is not sure his uncle even realises he is speaking. ‘It did not end as happily as it should have. I lost… friends of mine. Sometimes I still –’ Bilbo’s breath hitches and he scolds himself for even thinking of burdening a child with this story. He has told snatches of it often enough around The Shire; generally, he admits, to the younger hobbits – but he has never gone into detail, especially not about the last portion of their ill-fated Quest. That he is even considering doing so now is unutterably selfish of him, but he can’t seem to stop himself.

‘All those tales about the dwarves and the dragon,’ he whispers softly, ‘they are all true, my boy, but they are not all of it. I know most folk don’t believe me –’

‘I believe you,’ Frodo interrupts boldly, laying his right hand on top of both of Bilbo’s, which are clasped around his left. This startles Bilbo into looking up at last, and meeting his nephew’s eyes.

‘I’m glad,’ says Bilbo with a weak smile.

‘Can you tell me about it?’ Frodo asks, all innocent curiosity and wide blue eyes. Bilbo will never know if the request is for Frodo’s benefit or his own. He will never know if his nephew had simply wanted a story to lull him to sleep, or if the strangely perceptive young boy had somehow sensed Bilbo’s need to finally – finally – tell someone who would listen without judgement, without scepticism. Someone who would just _listen_ and _believe_.

In any case, Bilbo cannot help himself. He starts talking, and does not stop until long after Frodo is deeply asleep, one hand still held loosely in one of Bilbo’s.

So begins something of a tradition for the two of them, which lasts long after Frodo’s nightmares have begun to recede into memory. Every night Bilbo will talk until Frodo is asleep, and longer if he needs to; often he repeats large portions of his tale the following day, picking up wherever Frodo last remembers being left and carrying on again well into the night.

On the last night Bilbo cannot hold back his tears, and Frodo cries in turn and wraps his small arms around his uncle’s shaking shoulders, and they weather their grief together. It has been a long, long time in arriving for Bilbo, and when at last his weeping has run its course, he feels as though a knot has been loosened in his chest. He had not even realised it had been there; it is evident only now in its absence, and Bilbo hugs Frodo all the tighter in gratitude for his unwitting help.

‘Thank you, my boy,’ Bilbo murmurs. ‘Thank you.’

Frodo hears, and nods.

It is as Bilbo promised on that first night here at Bag End; they will survive this together.


End file.
